


Could Have Sworn

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel/ Cockles Shorts [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel-centric, Cowboys, Destiel - Freeform, Doctor Sexy M.D., Longing, M/M, POV Castiel, Teasing, Unrequited Love, unnoticed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wants to be seen, to be noticed. Castiel just needs Dean to look at him, <em>really</em> look at him - just once. It's all he wants, all he's ever wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Have Sworn

       Dean’s bedroom door is _still_ shut—he doesn’t hear any movement inside. _He’s probably still asleep_. Castiel stands rigid, unmoving, just another wall among the many of the bunker. He might as well be—he goes unnoticed like they do. He feels the bitter aftertaste of the last half dozen years swell on his tongue. _Who has done more for him? Even Sam can’t say he has sacrificed as much._ He swallows thickly, trying to choke down the guilt for thinking such things. He’s an angel. It’s his job to be invisible. It’s his job to protect the humans. It’s his job to be selfless, to not ask for thanks, to not expect anything. He fights the biggest battles and will die the bloodiest death, and he should be thankful in doing so; _but he can’t be_ —not after feeling those verdant eyes peer through him one too many times.

      The angel clamps down on the nerve that brought him here in the first place—pushing a steady foot out and thrusting hard onto the concrete flooring of the hallway. It echoes down the strip of cool grey—bouncing off the ceiling, the bricks, finally reverberating back to him, even louder than when it had left. He steadies himself and stares at the door handle. _Nothing_. Castiel picks up his other foot and stomps down again, pulling him closer to Dean’s room. The bunker vibrates with his thunder, but all remains silent once the shaking ceases. _Wake up, damn you!_ Castiel pounds the ground again, and again—hammering down his heels with a _clunk._ He feels like a tantruming child. _He may as well be_. He’s fed up. It’s been too long. _It’s all too much._

      “Cas, _dude!_ What are you doing?” Sam’s voice freezes him mid-stomp. “I thought we were getting bombed!”  
      The angel slowly lowers his foot, turning to look up at the looming Winchester. “You’re brother …” he begins, feeling the panic play on his face, “your brother is not waking up.”

      Sam scrunches up his brow and opens his mouth, letting it dangle there in waiting for the right words. He inhales heavily, “ _Okay_ … well, Dean’s not waking up because Dean is not in his room. He left early this morning to check some leads on a case.”

      Castiel feels his face burn, and he turns away, knowing he must be shining like a beacon in the dimly lit halls of the bunker.

      A minute passes before he hears Sam huff an amused, little breath. “So, _Cas_ … can you explain something to me?”

      Castiel finally turns to face the man once more, not liking the spiking tone in his voice. He raises his eyebrows but stays silent.

      “Why wouldn’t you just _knock?_ Why stomp around in front of his room?”

      Castiel watches Sam’s face—that young, _smug_ face that says he knows the answer, maybe not in specific detail, _but he knows._ Now, he just wants to torture the angel by having him say the words out loud. _No._ He won’t give him the satisfaction. He may be here to serve humans, to protect them, but he is certainly not here for their entertainment. Castiel shoves by the boy, perhaps using a bit too much of his angelic strength since Sam flings against the wall with a resounding _thud._ He doesn’t care, Sam can handle it. He has dealt with _much_ worse than an embarrassed, frustrated, defeated angel of the lord.

     “Dude! It was _just_ a question!” Sam coughs but Castiel ignores him. He walks away, deafening his ears to anything but the clacking of his own heels on the cement.

  
***

  
      He stares at his hands. They are soft and unscathed—the hands of the man he took. An innocent, devout human who had probably never felt blood wash over his skin. These hands should be calloused, scarred, _marred_ by years of abuse, but his grace would never allow for that. No, they are perfect— _perfectly average._ Perhaps that is why Dean doesn’t notice. There is nothing _to_ notice _._ He's a fool in an overcoat, resorting to such antics to get attention. There is no reason to ever believe that he will be anything more than the hammer that Dean perceived him to be. He has tried and perhaps, he has succeeded in losing that perception among his own kin and his enemies, but the man he has dedicated his life to only really ever sees him when he can be of use. He is a fool indeed. His father is probably watching him and shaking his head—if his father is still out there—if there is any concern left in his great heart—if he would even notice at all. _He probably would never notice such a pathetic angel._ Another set of eyes that look past him _._

_God, as unattainable as Dean._

      “Cas, _buddy_ —what the _hell_ are you wearing?”

      Castiel freezes, still staring at his clasped hands—the gravel on the ground beneath him, giving a nice backdrop to the tones of his perfect skin. The cool bricks of the bunker’s outer walls push softly into his spine. The angel stays crouched, leaning against them—hoping that if he remains still enough, Dean will walk away. _Now he sees me? Now he notices? I’m not ready for this._ The solid shape of the man clears in the corner of his eye—Dean shuffles closer, cool confidence seeping from his presence. Castiel bathes in it, like he always has, like he always will.

      “Cas?”

      “It’s nothing, Dean.” He finally looks up when he hears the man chuckle.

      _“Nothing?_ Dude, you’re wearing cowboy boots.”

      The man continues to muse—blooming into a hearty laugh after another breath. The sound is deep and rumbling, making the gravel tremble, _the walls shake_ —Castiel’s body shivers with the noise. It quakes with the realization that he is finally being seen ... seen as a _joke_. Seen as yet, _another mistake_. He had done this to be noticed as _more_ —more than the absent minded angel. More than the one who fumbles through the hours on unsteady feet and misguided wings. He did this to be seen as what he wanted to exude. He wanted to be what Dean _wants_ to see—as something the man takes joy in, to pass the time, to give him pleasure _—guilty or not._

      He slides up the wall, staring hard at the humor-filled Winchester. _That’s it!_ He is _done_ being laughed at. Castiel pushes from the ground and is within Dean’s space in a matter of seconds. Dean freezes, leaning back as the angel leans in. Castiel eyes the man, making those soft lips part and shake. They bounce on silent words and he watches them a moment, remembering that the only times he’s _not_ a joke, is when he’s a threat.

_It’s better than being a punchline._

      “Do you want to know _why_ I’m wearing these boots, Dean?”

      Dean stays impossibly bent, curving back over his own spine with every inch the angel spans. He gives a tiny, pathetic nod.

      “I’m wearing them because I am a _fool_. A pathetic fool who thought that some footwear would change your view of me. I thought you would—” he stops, holding his eyes steady on Dean’s but holding his breath with the uncertainty of saying more, “I thought you would finally see me differently.” He breaks, teetering back onto the raised heels of the boots, listening to the gravel crunch beneath them. He looks down at the faded, worn leather. The pointed toes jut out, directing him towards what he wants, what he has always wanted; but they prove just as useless as he is at actually obtaining it as the rest of him. Castiel doesn’t look back up. _What is the point?_ With defeat on his tongue, he begins to move away, holding his air and wondering if there is still any room in heaven for a fool angel.

_I’d still be a joke, but at least the laughter would hurt less._

      A firm hand catches his arm. Brow casted eyes peer up at him as he cocks his head to look at Dean. His body is quickly shoved back until he’s flush with the wall. Castiel slides his palms on the cool bricks, scraping the smooth surfaces until his skin is rough and white. Dean tangles his fingers tighter within the folds of the angel’s coat, inching out his breath as he stares at Castiel’s mouth.

 _He’s so close._      

      “I don’t want to see you differently, Cas. I just want to see _you._ ”

      The smooth heels of his boots grind into the dirt, _forgotten_ as Dean presses into his lips—seeking all of the angel's attention and finding it, ready and willing after so many years.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: Castiel-left-his-mark-on-me. Please take a look at my other works as well ... many more feels, hottness and angst!


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